


He'll Take One For The Team

by katekat



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-01-10
Updated: 2010-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-06 02:58:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katekat/pseuds/katekat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Chosen, Post Not Fade Away.  The "Core Four" are quietly going about the business of training Slayers and protecting the world, when Buffy has some interesting prophetic dreams. Written as a response to the world "determination" for the WatcherLove celebratory ficathon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine.  Plot lines aren't even really mine; they're just beamed to me via satellite.  All hail the mighty and benevolent Joss for making it all possible.
> 
> Distribution: WatcherLove.  The best place for G/Wes.
> 
> Feedback: Welcomed and appreciated.  Concrit is valued as well.
> 
> Notes: I apologize to all the Dawn lovers out there, but she's not in this little episode.  I've tried to leave everything else intact (or give good reasons why it's not).  Demons are from Occultopedia.com, Cornelius' prophetic words have been twisted from a translation of Nostradamus' work found here: <http://www.sacred-texts.com/nos/>. [Thoughts]  *Emphasis*   
> 
> Thanks: To Elizabuffy, the marvelous: you always make it better, woman who wields the change tracking of doom. You rock. All corrections are hers, all remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> I apologize to all the Dawn lovers out there, but she's not in this little episode.  I've tried to leave everything else intact (or give good reasons why it's not).  Demons are from Occultopedia.com, Cornelius' prophetic words have been twisted from a translation of Nostradamus' work found here: <http://www.sacred-texts.com/nos/>. [Thoughts]  *Emphasis*   

Wesley gritted his teeth, not caring that Giles would hear the sound.  This time he wasn't going to back down.  A bead of sweat dripped down the side of his face.  He panted.  Both were but small signs of the enormous energy he was expending.

He tried to distract himself.  Latin declensions never helped, so he tried to remember all of his newly acquired Fyarl and then swore in his own head when he remembered the language wasn't complicated enough to actually have conjugated verbs.

But he had to concentrate on _something!_  This wasn't a contest he could lose; not when so much was at stake: his dignity, his reputation, dear gods, if he didn't overcome this he would never live it down!

**********************************  
_  
One month earlier. . . _

Giles set his tea on the desk and settled into his chair.  He glanced at the wood paneled walls covered in bookshelves, and his desk, covered in paperwork.  He wouldn't have imaged that he'd ever enjoy mornings, not after the schedule he kept in Sunnydale, but, occasionally, the ritual of making tea, the first glance at the desk, and the welcome comfort of his office reminded him to enjoy the simplicity of unruffled quiet.  None of the slayers ever pulled themselves out of bed before ten, and since their instructors weren't much better at keeping early hours, he usually had the time between 10 and 11 to bask in the precious silence.

Then the phone rang.

"Giles?" Buffy asked as soon as he picked it up, "Why haven't you and Willow, or the coven or somebody figured out a way for me to live without prophetic dreams?   Seriously, after all of this, I train slayers, we rebuilt the council, we live in England.  Do I really have to deal with dreams on top of that?"

"Do I even need to dignify that with an answer?" he drawled.

"At least, would you mind not showing up naked in my prophetic dreams?" she returned.

"W-what?" he cleared his throat, "Did you say . . ."

"Yes, and although I know that your manly bits are just as manly as the next person's, do I really have to see them?"

He collected himself.  "And just how sure are we that this was a prophetic dream?  I do seem to recall your eyes glazing over when you noticed the ear piercing for the first time."

"As if!  Ok, I'll admit that the thought of you and that cute guy you brought around a couple of months ago for drinks – as if we couldn't tell he was boyfriend material, Giles, god – did kind of make me glaze over.  You knew he was cute though and you wanted to flaunt him.  But I know by now how to figure out which ones are prophetic and which ones are simply products of my diseased mind!  You know you taught me that the first year.  And . . . I know this one's prophetic because I've never dreamed about Wesley in any way and Giles . . . I think he's coming back."

He sat up at that, "Wesley?  You . . . Wesley Wyndham-Price, Wesley?"  

"Yes, oh echo-ey one.  Wesley."  The possibilities staggered Giles.  The apocalypse in Los Angeles hadn't been attended by the slayers because they were dealing with one of their own.  But they hadn't been able to tell Angel that, and everyone felt the pain of losing so many in LA.

"Buffy, please, just tell me what you saw."

"You know it's never as simple as that.  All I got were flashes.  Naked flashes.  Of you, and him, together.  Giles, that is more watchery goodness than a girl knows how to handle.  I think my brain is a weird puddle right now….with things indelibly imprinted on it.  Also, though, there were ritualistic markings as if you two were doing something magical.  Flashes of flame, an image of Wes sitting in our infirmary while we all looked at him – and Giles, I'm not going to say this when it happens, but you stare! – and then something about things being unfinished.  The full moon, too.  Isn't that in a couple of weeks?  Oh, and the usual eight armed monster in some dark hole trying to strangle all of us.  Another one.  And something about the end of all time droning on over and over.  I am so tired of demons that are freaky and live in dank holes.  Can't we just go back to vampires?"

His mind racing, he almost missed Buffy's last remark.

"We can, and do, on a nightly basis.  That's what you train the other slayers for isn't it?"

"Yes, Giles, I know, I know.  I remember."  

"Buffy, was there anything . . . about Angel?  Or Spike?"

Buffy was quiet for a second, then, all the teasing fled from her voice she replied, "There wasn't anything Giles.  I think they don't have to fight anymore.  I think they kinda did their last stand and get to rest now."

Giles didn't know what to say to comfort her.  If she was in the office, he could've given her a hug.  

"Buffy, you know you've got to come in."

"I know Giles!  Don't worry, I'll be there as soon as I can shower and brush my teeth."  She giggled, "Won't he be surprised to find out Andrew's stories were all fakes?"

"Yes, I'm sure he'll be overjoyed to hear you're not silly enough to date a vampire named the Immortal."  Giles teased, then continued in a softer tone, "He might be happy to know we didn't simply abandon him.  I still think sending Andrew to Los Angeles was a bad decision, Buffy.  Look at what a pack of lies he made up."

She sighed, "Look, I know!  You don't need to go over that again Giles, especially when he gave them that awful, melodramatic brush off.  But you were barely conscious, Willow couldn't even walk, Xander was down for the count, and I could barely speak my own name!  You know closing that hellmouth in Spain nearly got us.  We had to send someone, and we just didn't have anyone else.  I've apologized over and over for sending him."

"Yes, yes, I know.  I'm sorry I keep bringing it up.  I just wish there was something we could have done . . ."

"I know, me too Giles.  But there wasn't.  And it's all water under the bridge, right?  We need to concentrate on the 'here and now' and the fact that we've got a kind of scruffy looking Wes appearing sometime soon. Can we just continue this conversation later?  Talk with Will, will you?  She went in early, too; maybe she can do a psychic reading or something?"

"More than 10 years of magic, and all you can suggest is a psychic reading?  Perhaps Wesley is coming back to straighten you out."

Buffy laughed at that, then interjected, "Be careful Giles, I got the impression that Wes was gonna be here–and soon–so keep an eye out for him, will you?"

"I will.  Although if you saw the full moon we might have a little time – the next isn't for three weeks.  I suppose we'd better go over the Cornelius scrolls again.  You know he probably predicted this at some point or another."

Buffy sighed on the other end of the line.  "How did I know you were going to say that?  Research.  Again.  And the worst, most annoying, prophetic scrolls in the library.  You're not making this any easier.  I was going to sleep in!  Oh well.  Bye."

Giles put the phone down and released the sigh he'd been holding.  His thoughts were as jumbled as Buffy's dream.  Wesley was coming back?  Who, or what, was going to bring him back?  And they were going to have . . . he balked at that.  He'd never thought of Wesley as  . . . he had eyes, he didn't miss that the man was handsome, but . . . dear gods.  And after the horror of Los Angeles, would the man even be sane?  

After the fall of Sunnydale, they had needed so much time to simply recuperate.  He wondered if Wesley would recognize any of them.  Not that they'd changed all that much – Willow was still fiery-haired and beautiful and had a tendency to babble, Xander was still stronger than he looked and always stole the last doughnut.  Buffy, too, outwardly looked and acted the same.  Yet the four of them had built the council together, touching every aspect of it with their whole hearts.  A school of 100 young women–more found every day by Faith and Robin—trained and taught by the four of them and whoever they could recruit and suit to the task.  He took his glasses off, rubbed his nose, and started to gather the things he'd need for their research.  Buffy would tell Xander on her way into the main compound, and they'd all probably gather there to read their Cornelius.

A knock interrupted his reflections, and Willow poked her head around the door.   

"Uh, Giles?  I think you should see who just appeared in the main hall. . ."

 

**********************************


	2. He'll Take One For The Team (G/Wes) 2/?

Wesley lay in the infirmary bed, dazedly watching the movement around him.  Several slayers, who also seemed to be very efficient nurses, checked his temperature and made measurements on charts.  If the women weren't obviously used to dealing with injured parties far more ill than he; he would've worried about their relative youth.

Willow reappeared with Mr. Giles in tow, both looking worried, although Giles' eyes also held something indecipherable.  Wesley shook his head again, not really comprehending where he was or how he'd gotten there.  A few moments ago he was dying on the floor, Fred – NO – Illyria cradling him.  From Willow's hurried explanation, it was a month later and he was in England, in an old trade college that they'd purchased wholesale with Council funds, and everyone he'd known in Los Angeles was gone.

Wesley cleared his throat and looked to Giles, "Am I truly the only one left?"

The man looked grave as he replied, "I'm sorry Wesley, terribly sorry."  His response was the only confirmation Wesley needed.  He felt his lips tighten and his body go taught.  He sat up, tense and uncomfortable, and felt a pressing need to be away from Willow's-too-understanding eyes.  It was then the sheet slid down and he realized that was his only covering and he wasn't going anywhere.

"And Wolfram &amp; Hart?  The Brotherhood of the Black Thorn?" He couldn't help but ask.

Buffy took that moment to turn the corner, and answered the question she must've heard as she came down the hall.  "They killed them all, Wes.  Angel, Spike and the rest killed them all.  There was nothing left for us to take down but a few stragglers by the time we got there.  They died heroes."

He closed his eyes again, trying to shut out everything they told him, but behind the fog that still cluttered his brain, he knew somewhere deep that their words were true.

One of the nurses interrupted, "Mister Wyndham-Pryce, thank you, we're done now."  Willow turned to a cupboard and pulled out spare clothing, bringing it to Wesley's side.  He looked into her sympathetic face again, and it was all too much.

"May . . . may I have a moment?" he asked the room.  They all nodded and cleared out.  He sighed into the silence, and pulled on the clothes, wondering at men's clothing in an infirmary for slayers, until he realized that Giles must keep some spares there for when he needed them.  Everything felt . . . ill fitting.  The clothes, the air, his skin; nothing felt right.  Everyone he cared about was gone. . . gone into that black pit. . .and he was left here.  Here, where something else was expected of him.  Here, where they still fought the fight because they believed in it.  That light shone in the faces of everyone who had greeted him since he'd found himself on the floor of the main building. 

He didn't know what he wanted, so he sat down on the edge of the infirmary bed and put his face in his hands.  He didn't want to think anymore.  It was all too much.

A voice interrupted his thoughts, "You know, you still have friends."  Buffy stood in the doorway.  He didn't respond, but she took his silence as invitation and came to sit by him.

"I don't know what to say to make the pain go away, Wes, but . . . we'd like to help.  And, frankly, there's a whole lot to help with if you're willing.  Also?  Been back from the dead before, you want to talk about it?"

"Buffy, it's very sweet of you to offer, but new friends won't change the fact that everyone I knew—" his voice cut off at that.  He couldn't say it.  Not yet.  "How is it that the last time anyone from Los Angeles asked for your help, we were told in no uncertain terms you didn't trust us?  What changed?"

"Yeah, about that . . ." Buffy blushed and looked at her feet, "All I can say Andrew is an idiot that really likes to make up stories.  He's not allowed out of the building anymore.  Everything he said?  Completely untrue.  The reason why no one else went was because we were all recovering from a hellmouth blasting wide open in Spain."

"Ah.  Well, that certainly makes a bit more sense.  I had thought at the time that if you were that angry at Angel you might speak with him yourself.  But Mr. Giles brushed him off as well."

"Actually, he didn't.  I know this is a lot to deal with Wes, but something you guys in LA didn't realize is that once you moved into Wolfram &amp; Hart, you didn't actually hear from us.  You heard from Wolfram &amp; Hart employees pretending to be us.  Just like we didn't hear from you, but from fake yous.  I had whole conversations with Spike that I found out never happened!  It was horrible: we didn't even find out you guys were fighting until I had a stupid prophetic dream about it.  God, you don't know how much trouble those dreams have caused!  But we got to LA so late . . ."  She bowed her head next to him, and heaviness seemed to settle over them both.

After a moment, Buffy's head came up.  She hopped off the bed and moved to stand in front of him.  Wesley raised his head to watch her and saw the grief in her eyes, grief that for a moment seemed to overwhelm him.  She'd lost both Spike and Angel without ever being able to say goodbye . . .

She blinked, and through the grief he saw that steely glint of life that rose into her face.  "But Wes?  They wouldn't want either of us to brood.  Not this way.  Because I know exactly where they all went, and it's not somewhere that requires grief."

Some of her spark seeped into him, making him sit up straighter.  "No, you're right.  They are not somewhere that requires grief.  Which begs the question, why am I not with them?"

She smiled at that, a smile full of mischief.  "Well, I'm not totally certain, but I had this dream . . ."


	3. He'll Take One For The Team (G/Wes) 3/?

Giles rubbed the bridge of his nose, unrolled the small square of parchment, and tried to focus on the crabbed script that Cornelius had used to record his ravings.  Buffy's dream had come to fruition in record-time: Wesley was truly in England, being given a tour of their facilities by the only other person he knew who had come back from the grave.  He hoped Buffy could draw Wesley out; the man had seemed so grim.

Who wouldn't be?  Giles wondered to himself.  Wesley had lost his friends in a titanic battle.  Here he was, being again asked to fight the good fight.  The man seemed so different from the pompous ass that had stood in the doorway to the Sunnydale High school library so many years ago.

A flash of bare-chested Wesley sitting up in alarm replayed itself over Giles' eyes.  Changed indeed.  God, he was a bit twisted himself, wasn't he, ogling a man who was returned from the grave to help them avert an apocalypse?  But Buffy's words had played on an endless loop since this morning.  Her teasing aside, he wondered if he could find out more details.  The most lurid images ran across his mind's eye.  He'd made the great mistake at one point of looking up sexual rituals, back when he was first doing magic.  There were thousands of them.  Each one more convoluted than the next.  And yet, he couldn't stop thinking of them.  He looked across the main library room, his eyes searching the vaulted ceilings and dark shelves around him as if they held the answers, but he knew this room's answers weren't in the long tables or leather bound chairs; the answers were in the parchment in front of him.

Across the table, Willow scribbled notes as she translated the scroll in front of her.  Both turned as the merry tones Buffy's voice floated down the hall towards them.

"And this is the heart of action central: the library.  And look!  Research.  I know you just want to plunk down and start looking, don't you Wes?"

"Oh yes, Buffy, that's it," came Wesley's dry reply.  "The very first thing I would like to do after being resurrected to save the world is bury my head in a dusty tome. In fact, I could smell the books at 50 paces."  Buffy laughed.  Giles stood, relieved that the man walking with Buffy looked somehow restored, somehow determined.  Very different than the man who'd greeted them from the infirmary bed.

"Hey guys, found anything yet?"  Willow shook her head no as Giles let loose a regretful sigh.  "Should've known.  Wes, how's your Latin?"

"Latin?" Wesley asked in surprise, "You read Latin now Buffy?"

She gave him a soft shove, "Hey, we grow!"

"Who are you reading in Latin that's worth reading?"

Giles gave the short answer, "Cornelius."

Wesley laughed.  "Cornelius?  Why, we read him in first year in Watcher training – he's a raving madman, not a prophet.  Why are you bothering with that garbage?  They used it to show us exactly what a prophecy isn't supposed to be.  Why, the man claims the most outlandish things!  Cities falling into the ground because of a vampire hero. . ." his speech began to slow, "Hundreds of slayers defending…the earth…at once. . ."  He grabbed for a nearby chair and sat down heavily.  Three understanding smiles graced the faces of the people surrounding him, Giles' the biggest. 

Giles remembered that he'd felt the exact same way when Willow had first brought the scrolls to him.  "It's a bit much isn't it?" Giles asked understandingly.  "But we've found that, from what we can decipher, Cornelius actually saw quite a few of the events during and after the fall of Sunnydale.  As long as you can get through the lunatic sentence structure, he's quite spot on."

"His fifth coda is the one that mentions LA, too," piped in Willow.  "Otherwise we would've never known about it, not with Wolfram &amp; Hart messing up all of our phone calls with you guys." 

"But . . . the man was a crackpot," protested Wesley.

Buffy fielded that one as she pulled up her customary chair, "He was a total loony, but he hasn't failed us yet.  Or, not as far as we've been able to translate.  The guy left a thousand scrolls, and we still haven't made it through half of 'em.  But every time we do, and we can figure out what he's saying, he says something good."

Just then Andrew rounded the far corner, his eyes going wide at the sight of Wesley calmly seated at the library tables.  He let out a silent "OH!" and Giles quickly hopped up to forestall the gushing that was sure to come as the blond made his way towards them.  The last thing Wesley needed was Andrew's melodrama.  Unfortunately, the young man had a penchant for the most ignorantly romantic expressions.  They'd put him in charge of the library to keep him out of trouble, although he demanded they call him the Archivist (and Giles winced every time Andrew said his own title because he could hear the capital letter implied).  The silver lining was that he was quite adept at translating Cornelius because the horrible phrasing almost matched the prose Andrew liked to speak on a regular basis.

"Wesley?  Are you hungry?  What about a bite to eat before research?"  He asked.  Wesley looked up at him and smiled, and Giles couldn't help but smile back.

"That would be lovely."  Both men rose, just as Andrew fetched up to their table.

"Oh my goddess!  Wesley!  You're ALIVE!"  Andrew was trembling with surprise, and he looked like he was on the verge of hugging Wesley.  Giles swiftly moved between them, then turned to head off Andrew's impending attack.

"Andrew, Willow and Buffy can fill you in on the details of Wesley's resurrection.  We desperately need your help.  Another apocalypse is on its way, we think it's due to occur at the next full moon.  It appears that Wesley will be the key factor in fending it off, but he's had nothing to eat since he was returned to us, and so we're off to find a bite and we'll be back.  In the meantime, call if you find anything, will you?"  Giles moved away from the group with Wesley as he went, sending apologetic looks towards Willow and Buffy. 

Willow helped them make their escape, "No problem Giles!  Now that we have Andrew to help I'm sure we'll find something."  Andrew preened under her praise and turned towards the scrolls. 

Giles noticed Buffy had a peculiar kind of grin as she waved goodbye and knew that Willow would shortly know the entire contents of her dream, embarrassing to her watcher or not.  He sighed, but knew that getting Wesley settled—and out of Andrew's line of fire—was more important than his own discomfort. 

 

**********************************

The remains of various curries spread out on the table before them, Giles and Wesley sat at his kitchen table, nursing their beers.  It was surreal, Wesley thought, to be sitting in the remodeled deans' house that was now Giles' living quarters, calmly eating a meal, letting others do their research.  Giles had assured him it was reasonable to have the others looking for them.  Buffy's dream had, for once, seemed to include a timeline. 

Buffy's dream . . .he ducked his head to try and hide any signs of a blush.  She'd been predictably vague; he supposed Giles hadn't trained that out of her, but had mentioned that he and Giles . . . would . . . that they would . . . a spell . . . he shook his head, realizing that he couldn't form the words in his own mind.  Not that it stopped the images.  Oh, no, not with Giles sitting in front of him, heedless and relaxed, talking about the opportunities Wesley had within their new organization.  He could admit to himself that he was watching the other man's lips, and not really paying attention to his explanation that his flat was also the quietest place to stay, since the others had taken the provost accommodations attached to the residence halls which meant Buffy, Xander and Willow were able to keep an eye on the slayer trainees—and Andrew—without sacrificing their own privacy, although they had to deal with a great deal of teenage giggling and pranks. 

The relative peace here made Wesley feel . . . comfortable.  Far too comfortable for a man who'd suffered such upheavals.  His brain shunted away from the delicious line of Giles' throat and into the other line of thought he couldn't escape: he'd lost his friends.  He had lost everything.  He struggled to hang onto the grief, because it was the only thing he had left of them, but there was something about the place that seemed to seep into his bones.  A feeling, a sense of purpose that he'd had at the Hyperion but lost when they'd moved to Wolfram &amp; Hart.  Not that he knew what to do with that sense of purpose.  Right now they had nothing but Buffy's fragmented dreams of a tentacled beast to go on.  And there was nothing productive in her vague details and giggles about naked watchers – just the knowledge that something was coming, and he and Giles were the ones who would have to vanquish it.  There he was, back to thinking about Giles again.  He couldn't seem to escape that.  He looked at the other watcher under the cover of his eyelashes and wondered at the man.  Rupert Giles hadn't changed a bit since Sunnydale.  Rather, he had changed, but all the changes had been good ones.  He admitted to himself that he'd always noticed the other man, even in Sunnydale.  Nothing more than that, just noticed.  Unfortunately, now, he couldn't stop noticing.

Giles' voice broke into his thoughts. "I do wish you'd think about it.  We need all the help we can get."

Wesley shook his head, to clear the wool, not to negate what Giles was saying.  "I . . . I will think about it.  It seems I need a bit of purpose in my life.  It simply feels strange to be here, much less think about training slayers to become better slayers."

"I know the prospect's a bit daunting, but I think you'll find most of them are far more tractable than Buffy was when you first met her.  Even those that come here with as many issues as Faith find something that challenges them."

Wesley winced at the mention of his slayer.  He still thought of her that way, regardless of the years or the pain between them.  At least the last time they'd parted on mostly reasonable terms.  He was proud of her, of the things that she managed to do and continued to do.  He knew it wasn't due to his help, but if he could actually do the job he'd always thought he'd spend the rest of his life doing?  Except not with a Council filled with old men who looked down their noses at him, but instead run by four people he respected immensely.  He stopped waffling and decided to throw in his lot – they seemed more like family every passing moment.

"I would like to be some part of what you've built here.  I'm honored that you'd ask."

Giles made a pfft sound at that.  "Wesley, we need you.  For far more than what the powers have brought you back for.  You realize you and I are the only people I know who can still read Anamelish?  We'd be trying to drag you here for that alone."

Wesley smiled at that, "And how often do you need to know the language of an obscure baby-eating Assyrian demon?"

"It's come up."  Giles dryly replied.  "You see, the reason why we got this place on the cheap?  It had an Anamelech in the basement."  As he continued his story, Wesley dropped into his own reflections again, content to let the other man's voice drift over him in a kind of soft wave.  He marveled again at how familiar this seemed.  Sitting at Giles' table, eating his dinner, talking about demons and, in a horribly selfish way, looking forward to the next apocalypse.  It was not what he would have predicted for an afterlife, but as far as they went it didn't seem quite that bad.

"Alright, that's it."  Giles' voice once more broke into his thoughts.  He looked at the man inquiringly. "This is the second time you've slid right out of the conversation.  I know that Anamelechs aren't the most entertaining of creatures, but I think you might need some sleep." 

Wesley tried to perk up at that, "Nonsense.  There's research that needs to be conducted. A-and don't you think we should talk about . . . Buffy's . . . dream?"  Giles grinned wryly at him and shook his head no.

"You need a fresh head to read Cornelius, or don't you remember?  And I'll be reckless and suggest that any discussion we have about Buffy's prophetic dream should probably happen when you've been back from the dead less than a day.  Especially when we have a little time.  It can wait.  Let me show you a place to sleep.  You can wake up and translate to your heart's content.  I promise." 

Wesley followed him down a short hall to a guest room furnished in heavy oak and rich colors.  The bed looked so inviting, he nearly groaned aloud, only to find Giles looking at him with a bit of a smile that made him think some involuntary sound had escaped. 

"Just as I thought."  Giles walked over to a chest of drawers and pulled out a set of nightclothes.  "Hmm, we'll have to see about getting you things that fit properly.  I hope you don't mind wearing my things for a bit longer?"  At Wesley's negative headshake, he pressed the clothes into his hands then moved past Wesley.  At the door he turned, "Get some rest Wes.  The scrolls aren't going anywhere, and neither are the rest of us."  

Wesley chuckled a bit at that.  "You're right, of course.  Wake me, though, if they find anything?"  Giles nodded his reassurance and then closed the door on his way out.

Wesley changed into the softer bedclothes and pulled back the deliciously thick bedding.  He felt as if he hadn't slept for weeks.  The last thing he remembered thinking as his head hit the pillow, wrapped in warmth and down and a lovely clean scent that came from the linens, was that it was very silly to be tired when he'd been in some other realm, dead, for a month.  Shouldn't he have felt more rested?

**********************************  
To be continued . . .


End file.
